I had one of those dreams
  where the day
        already knew

        what it was supposed to do.

Suspicious.

Very suspicious.

Wednesday showed up
          wearing a headset,
          carrying a clipboard,
          acting like it had been
          project managing joy

          since before sunrise.

“Coffee?”

Yes, Wednesday.

Obviously.

Then it handed me
     a cup labeled:

     DO NOT OVER-EXPECT

     which felt rude, but probably fair.

In the dream,
   Madison Square Garden
   had somehow been built

   onto the patio at Irby’s.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

Section 126
        where the dart board was.

The Knicks bench
    blocking the route to the bathrooms.

Patrick “Overtime”
        walking through
        with that look

        like he’d seen weirder on a Wednesday.

Trivia started at eight.

Tip-off started at eight-thirty.

Nobody saw a conflict.

Dream rules.

One round was
    “Things Mari Says With Her Eyebrows.”

We swept it.

One round was
    “NBA Finals Teams That Should Know Better.”

The Knicks filed a formal complaint.

Rejected.

By Orca.

Who was,
    naturally,

    the commissioner.

Coal served as judge,
     black-lab serious,
     deeply unimpressed

     with everybody’s handwriting.

King Ron appeared
     wearing a crown

     made entirely of unused F1 Arcade tokens.

Apex explained DRS
     to a confused Jalen Brunson.

The Spurs mascot
    ordered mozzarella sticks

    and somehow paid with Canadian dollars.

Nobody questioned it.

Again:

Dream rules.

And there you were.

Not magically healed.

Not grief-free.

Not because dreams
        get to fix
    what real love
       has to hold.

But lighter.

A little.

Enough for the corner
        of your mouth
          to remember

          where the smile starts.

Enough for your laugh
           to show up
    five minutes late,

    but still…

    completely worth waiting on.

Enough for me
       to stop watching
       the sadness over your shoulder

       and just watch you.

The scoreboard said:

          SPURS 108
         KNICKS 103
         SERIES 2–2

         MARIPOSA SMILED: YES

Which seemed excessive
      for a jumbotron,
      but I’m not in charge

      of dream typography.

There were other signs.

The trivia answer sheets
       folded themselves
     into tiny airplanes
    and flew toward the basket.

Every wrong answer
      turned into a nacho.

The patio lights leaned down
    like they wanted to hear you better.

My phone kept buzzing
   with calendar invites
   from the universe:

   8:00 PM — make her laugh if possible
   8:30 PM — Spurs, please do your job
   10:45 PM — don’t ruin the hug
   11:00 PM — no notes, just be there

I accepted all of them.

Obviously.

Then Wednesday
     tapped the clipboard
     and said:

     “No promises.”

I said:

      “I know.”

It said:

      “She might still be sad.”

I said:

      “I know.”

It said:

      “The Knicks might win.”

And I said:

      “Let’s not say things we can’t take back.”

That’s when you laughed.

The real one.

The one that makes
    the whole room

    improve its posture.

The one that makes dogs look up
    like somebody opened the treat cabinet.

The one that makes me forget
           every clever line
               I had planned
                  and become
                  just a man
                lucky enough
                to be nearby
            when it happened.

Then I woke up.

Rude.

No Garden.

No trivia sheets
   becoming nachos.

No commissioner Orca
   overruling New York
   on procedural grounds.

Just Wednesday.

Real Wednesday.

Unwritten.

Standing there
         with the whole day
         still in its pockets.

So listen, Wednesday,
   if you’re listening:

I don’t need perfect.

Don’t get cocky.

Don’t try to become
      the dream exactly.

That’s how days
       pull a hamstring.

Just be kind.

Give her a little air.

Give grief somewhere to sit
     that isn’t directly on her chest.

Give the Spurs
     one clean quarter
     when it matters.

Give trivia
     one question
     dumb enough

     for us to argue about on purpose.

Give the pups
     their usual jurisdiction
     over everybody’s feelings.

And if there’s room,
    if the schedule behaves,
    if her heart
    can carry the night
    without having to carry it alone,

    give us
    the couch,
    the game,
    the dogs,
    the smile,

    the her.

Not as a guarantee.

Not as a demand.

Just as a dream
     I woke up
     still wanting
     and a Wednesday
     I’m trying very hard

     not to scare off.